Subconscious Oceans
by Gamecrazy 25
Summary: Matsuda wasn't stupid. Light/Matsuda with mentioned Light/Misa, implied content, insanity, slight language, very dark, disturbing imagery, spoilers. Be warned.


--One-Shot: Subconscious Oceans

Summary: Matsuda wasn't stupid. Light/Matsuda with mentioned Light/Misa, implied content, insanity, slight language, very dark, disturbing imagery, spoilers

Gamecrazy's Note: I own nothing!

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Matsuda wasn't stupid. If he was he wouldn't be a detective. If he was he wouldn't have this ordeal. If Matsuda was brain-rotting _stupid_ he wouldn't know what was happening to him.

The ocean--too expansive beneath all shades of sky to even begin to imagine how much of it there could be. That body of water drenched in sunset was Matsuda's first ocean: the one where his love and hatred collided in a never ending clash for dominance.

Light in Matsuda's mind was the prized trophy, golden and gleaming and _so_ coveted but untouchable behind a box of see-through glass not meant to be broken into millions of shards by just a flimsy swipe injected with hope for it. Matsuda _wanted_ Light so badly it tore his heart with pure _need_ and it was a constant struggle to maintain himself around the young man, making it all the more torturous to know how perfect he was. It almost made him sick to the depths of his stomach to visualize what it could be like, all of that blinding flawlessness jolting throughout his system, all because he didn't feel worthy of something as grand as that. Matsuda would cringe and bend over the toilet for fear of seeing the contents of breakfast bobbing in the unsanitary water brimming with squiggling bacteria, that sensation of _Light_ mounting and coiling inside a tight spring until it reduced him into ashes and ruins of an explosion--and that was just a sick, stupid _fantasy_. His soul would lay bare to dissecting if Matsuda ever had the opportunity to be within the grasp of pleasure incarnate; he would beg Light to do whatever with him--even if it meant ripping up his body like an ancient rag doll and sinking the remnants into the dankest sections of the sea--because it was an angel's blessing to have even the barest brush of fingers connect with his own skin.

Light was perfection personified: a genius mental capacity to rival the greatest detectives, a generous son and civilian, a young man with the world on a string free to do whatever he wished and no one to berate him on it, a natural leader who knew when to swallow his emotions like a pill, and a heightened sense for what was justice and what failed to live up to its expectations. The greatness of those qualities paled Matsuda in comparison, he being just a detective who struggled to eat, lived all alone in a cheap apartment where no one would know or care if someone murdered him without another thought, a man seen as useless and immature in the eyes of his coworkers though he made the same sacrifices they did. He didn't deserve someone such as Light but he prayed desperately with all his spirit, everything he had, for just a good natured grin or a simple greeting from the caramel-haired youth with the honey eyes holding such emotion yet keeping it locked away until the appropriate times.

Matsuda didn't even think he loved _himself_ as much as he did Light.

Yet, there were two sides to every coin, a pro to the con, another thing in the balanced scale's tray. His name was Kira. Kira--the exact opposite of pure intelligent Light--lurked like a stalker in the corner of Matsuda's vision, ever present in the shadows with a devilish sneer and crimson murderous eyes. He was a mass murderer whose signature kills were heart attacks, filthy screaming criminals rotting to the bone in deranged jails and any foolish mortal who dared walk across his paved road to holiness his victims. If Matsuda's heart divided into two, one would be screaming in want for Light and the other shrieking for the pulverizing hatred for Kira. The mere mention of those bodies stacked to the heavens, all faceless and wan in death's clutches, caused the most extreme hatred to course through his veins, his soul pulsing the negative feeling throughout all regions of his body, his entire frame quaking in the grip of burning dislike so hot hell's fires itself would be neck-to-neck in a battle for most prominent. Kira: the unknown person reeking of cruelty and arrogance of haven't being captured and thrown into solitary confinement like those plastered on the news every morning, afternoon, and evening.

Matsuda wanted Kira_ dead_, stone cold in the ground like hundreds of thousands of corpses before him, crushing his heartless body by the weight of decay of those he slammed his "justified" gavel upon without the slightest hint of mercy.

This opened into the second ocean: pitch black in the unworldly night without a single star to brighten the choking water even by the smallest amount. This was the sea of insanity, unforgiving in all areas.

Matsuda knew himself to be not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree--especially compared to the reincarnated god Light--but he could pick apart his own mind and give himself a mental examination. This ruthless reflection only showed him one thing: he was going crazy, batty, misplacing his marbles, any other term for the definition _losing his mind_.

Not that Matsuda highlighted this as a concern on the "Give a Damn" scale. It wasn't as if he was particularly desirable by anyone (except one person he would _kill_ to be noticed by) or had a caring individual calling him on the phone or sending an email to check on his well being--why _would_ he be worried about his mental health? Matsuda's parents lived a couple cities away; or was it parent now, he hadn't left a message on the answering machine in so many years. Sure, they would be generous with their only son but Touta Matsuda was a big boy now. He could take care of himself, he had a job as a detective like he had awed in movies growing up, and he had his own living space. What more could he want? Light to gift him with just a simple touch and Kira to just vanish off the face of the earth but Matsuda's family had nothing to do with it. He could tackle his own problems.

Matsuda wasn't stupid. He had a couple inklings as to why his sanity ticked by like sand in an hourglass. One reason would be Light. It wrenched a knife in his heart to know how much he pined for such a holy man that he could never receive what he wished, no matter how many amorous caresses to which he shivered or how many kisses trailed down his bare chest making him moan in pleasure. Matsuda realized deep down that his relationship with Light was completely and utterly **wrong**--wasn't the other male _engaged_ to Misa Amane, possibly the most beautiful actress/singer/supermodel in all of Japan? She gave his own crushing love for Light a run for the money, constantly clinging onto his arm or sneaking a kiss on a cheek--Matsuda panged in jealousy because he couldn't perform such things in public though the displays of affection deemed too innocent for his taste. He preferred to be handled in whatever ways Light wanted just as long as he knew his apple of his eye would enjoy it, screw pain or uncomfortable situations.

Maybe wrong was the only word able to fit inside the giant maw of Matsuda's obsession with someone such as Light, his spiraling sanity, and the last variable to this sprawling equation, all combined in a meshing goop too vile and unpleasant for others to touch or comprehend.

This last number had a name and it was Kira. Yes, the same Kira Matsuda sworn to never accept and cursed to dislike until his death day. The mass murderer only smirked on top of his throne built of decaying scum of the planet--criminals of course, felled in his fake justice--with their hearts burst into crimson fireworks and rags caked with mud stuck like tar onto bodies not any cleaner. He perched on his royal chair of lifeless humans, their eyes wide with unfelt terror, white and reminiscent of milky marbles forever clouded of the world of the living. Kira wiggled his gavel--or was it merely a giant pen and the judge's object a metaphor?--between his first two fingers and taunted with his voice like the wind: heard everywhere but no one knowing the source. He lay sitting in a mess of inky shadows, enclosing any details of his face or body, protected from those who were to guess his identity in a cloak secrecy had spun just for this unknown killer.

Kira would only win hatred against Matsuda, possibly even unbridled fury. These emotions curdled with insults just tumbled off the man like water droplets or flung pebbles, never penetrating the shell of skin. Kira knew he had the detective in his grip, a tiny fragile doll clasped in his hand: easy to break and a ready pawn. He grinned like a hungry vampire as Matsuda squirmed--_drowned_--beneath him, the detective scratching the killer's torso with sharp nails despite his paralysis of being subject to this torture. Kira exploded inside him too many times for the him to count on his trembling fingers, fear numbing his brain for realization that everything was _**wrong**_ with him.

Yes, **everything** was wrong about Touta Matsuda. His relationship--but was it really?--with Light, something he should be smacked for because his gripping hands would only dirty the clean pane of glass, was wrong. His bond with Kira, that power swallowing murderer identified by no one, was wrong. His own soundness of mind was wrong.

Obsession with anything, insanity, and repeated sexual assault--the trio danced Matsuda into a pit of despair. Yet if he died--be it by Kira himself or his own hand--and was presented a repeat button by a higher force to gain another chance at life and being surrounded by the same people again, he would accept the chance and do it all over again, breaking any choice of escaping from the surely endless cycle involving one killer, one angel, and one crazy detective.

Matsuda couldn't return to being a child crying on the porch steps because of a scraped knee and waiting for a mother to kiss it better or a boy rushing to hug his father after a long day at work anymore. Any innocence remaining from those days he had vanquished with a forged knife of his own flesh and bone. Why had he done it?

Matsuda wasn't Touta-chan who wanted to protect his little corner of Japan like his favorite TV show officer or received affection from his loving parents during a raging thunderstorm. He was a grown man and all the more subject to the horrors of the real world. No more mom and dad to shield from the scary bad man who steals little boys and girls off the streets. He had accepted his current predicament for one reason: Light Yagami.

Long ago had Matsuda known that his want for Light had gone from simple admiration (_Wow, Light-kun is so smart. I wish I could be as intelligent as him_.) to a budding crush (_I... I __**like**__ Light-kun... Please don't find out Chief! I won't do anything, I promise!_) to no-holds-barred obsession (_Light-kun... I need you so bad--its killing me but god, do whatever you want to me, I just want your approval of a lowlife such as I!) _He knew for a fact that it lacked the naivety of a schoolgirl crush with stammers as greetings and shaking hands delivering a Valentine's Day package meticulously wrapped late into the night complete with blushes and a haste freedom from that overpowering aura.

Matsuda relished the contact between him and Light, a union meant to hide in the dark offices without a soul sulking about or cameras to expose this treachery. A snowball's chance in **hell** would it would thrown into the daylight where it would smolder in bubbling ooze! Light would slide his tongue in the most sensitive areas, causing Matsuda to shudder in desire and surrender to putty in his paws to be molded into a shape the other wanted. Never would a gentle hand dusted with experience skirt the top of the detective's pants; it never drifted that far no matter how much Matsuda begged. Light would only smile seductively and press a slender finger to his lips, shushing slowly so that his honeyed air breezed his face.

It was the polar opposite for Kira: cries failing to exit a mouth twisted in agony and a leering face looming above his own, close enough to kiss but never to do it. Matsuda wanted the climax with Light, not this deranged mass murderer! But Kira didn't halt his progress in the least, always getting it out of the way, maybe leaving a threat or two but never more than that.

So maybe Matsuda's life spun down the drain and into the septic tank. He couldn't care because Light was all that mattered to him, not aimlessly staring at that one dirt speck on the ceiling during several insomnia-filled nights, not the clothes still strewn in his bedroom like puddles of melted wrinkly rainbows when he had torn apart his closet in a fit of insanity, and not the nightmares in his light sleep where the tiniest noise snapped him awake where crimson imps flitted around his body jabbing through his skin with cliché pitchforks and begging him to travel to hell with them. Matsuda was already prepared for that trip to down under where lava streamed upwards in arcs and the ground's cracks filled with brimming magma. His feelings for Light spilled from his heart to form a tar coating around his whole body--let demons _try _to break that. Everything for Matsuda was so clear: he loved Light, he hated Kira, and he was going insane. Making him regret _anything_ would be meaningless.

Dare Matsuda say it but he _deserved_ to go to hell and it wasn't because of Light. He wasn't meant to thrive in the good anymore; submerged in the obscure that only the dankest humans emitted; in that insane ocean he drowned. Why go to heaven if you weren't sugar-sweet and innocent and pure? That child lay screaming, writhing like a snared snake and blood leaking out of every pore to stain the dust--what remained after his kindling of sanity snapped--and Matsuda loomed over that unfortunate shrieking thing, a knife wrought of his own self to kill the tiny light within him. He must be a person meant to sink into the unknown realms of a swamp because he did such a cruel task. Was Matsuda who staggered through such torture frightened to the marrow of his bones of _pain_? Maybe it was a pity action, spare the rod and spoil the child. That little boy would be murdered each day, pick apart a little at his well-being until his head flopped lazily to the side, bubbly saliva trickling into the dirt like a melting icicle. He wouldn't be berated for endless days on something he _knew_ was wrong and yet did it anyway.

Maybe that was why Matsuda didn't rest that often anymore. He would see himself thrust that unclean knife, dried flecks of life encrusted on the blade forever, into that child's heart as if to carve it from the beaten body. Its unrelenting cries pierced his shattered mind like arrows of sound, but Matsuda plunged the weapon in deeper, blood coating his hands in a red film impervious to soap and water. His eyes were dry and crying at the same time; maybe if he creaked open his mouth he would shout too. After all, wasn't that sincere little boy **Matsuda** at one time? Touta-chan sprouting like a weed with his airplanes and toy trucks and dreams of besting the criminals just like that sheriff on TV, sloppy grins filled with untainted happiness, and only a little embarrassed to be kissed on the crest of unruly black hair by his mother once his best playmates arrived with their toys?

Matsuda couldn't _have_ that blamelessness anymore. His own feelings contaminated him thoroughly, not leaving a trace of that undeserving boy in its wake. He was _saving_ that child from hell.

The third ocean: the disgusting reality of it all. It tossed and turned like Matsuda used to before he discovered he developed insomnia in constant waves, whirlpools twisting like water-coated tornados, leaving fish floating belly-up in its destruction and coral reef shards bobbing like driftwood. Thunder boomed in continuing static bursts and lightning flung itself like holy harpoons to strike a miniature boat finding this wrecked valley of a sea. The clouds struggled under crust upon crust of the darkest ink, blotting out all illumination. Nothing beautiful would stand for long under these devastating conditions.

Matsuda wasn't stupid. He was falling apart, breaking into fragments tumbling to the ground like broken jigsaw pieces, never to be repaired again. Yet in his waning days he clung to Light as always, begging for something more to satisfy but receiving a mischievous 'shh' and candied wind against his cheeks. Matsuda still twisted under Kira's grip, feeling everything go and definitely not enjoying it but wanting it over and done. He continued to wave goodbye to his bits of sanity, not regretting them leaving in the least.

He was drowning in his own personal oceans, all of them sewed together into his own personal hell. He wasn't lamenting losing his air underneath the relentless pressure of the sea.

Matsuda wasn't stupid. He knew he was going down under when the trio finally ceased their dancing, wasn't that good enough?

Matsuda wasn't stupid. He knew his whole life revolved around Light, Kira, and himself, others be damned.

Matsuda wasn't stupid. He knew guns weren't toy trucks to race down book ramps. He knew _exactly_ what to do with it.

Matsuda wasn't stupid.

When Light died--dare he think it by his own hand, his own _gun_?--he shot himself in the head, the sanity flying out of his head in the form of useless brain scraps.

Matsuda wasn't stupid because he paid his penance and was going to hell.


End file.
